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THE LIFE BEYOND 



THE LIFE BEYOND. 



THIS MORTAL MUST 
PUT ON IMMORTALITY. 



BY 

/ 

GEORGE H. HEPWORTH. 



n*iAYi*»a : 

/ 



Of V. 






NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

31 West Twenty-third Street 

1894 



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Copyright, i8g4, 
By E. P. Dutton & Co. 



The Library 
of Congress 



WASHINGTON 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER 

I. A Handful of Sand 



II. Furnace and Trip-Hammer 

III. Pulleys and Wires . . . 

IV. An Unfinished Building . 
V. " A Little Nearer Home " 

VI. A Marble Babe .... 

VII. A Fly in the Belfry . . 



PAGE 

9 

21 

35 

55 
$5 
S7 

101 



It has given me a great deal of pleasure to 
write this little book. The experiences of a long 
ministry have been recalled, and I have lived my 
life all over again. 

I am specially gratified, however, by the con- 
viction that I have not made a single statement 
which in any true sense can be called original. 
As an atithor, that fact, perhaps, camiot be 
regarded as a source of pride ; but as a lover 
of my kind it gives me unspeakable joy. 

Every question which is asked has been put io 
so?ne Master a thousand tunes in the generations 
gone by. The doubts expressed have been the sad 
inheritance of every age since man first began to 
wonder and to think. The answers, also, which 
fall from my Master's lips, have been the gift of 
faith to a struggling world ever since the morning 
stars sang together. 

It is simply my privilege to tell the old story 
in my own way ; and if it be true that no word 
of comfort is ever uttered in vain, I may be 
permitted to hope that even these pages will cai'ry 
good cheer to so?ne forlorn or wearied soul that 
gropes in the darkness and longs for the light. 

G. H. 



Is the lost friend still mysteriously here, even as we 
are here mysteriously, with God ? Know of a truth 
that only the Time-shadows have perished, or are per- 
ishable ; that the real Being of whatever was, and what- 
ever is, and whatever will be, is even now and forever. 
This, should it unhappily seem new, thou mayest ponder 
at thy leisure, — for the next twenty years, or the next 
twenty centuries. Believe it thou must ; understand it 
thou canst not. — Carlyle. 



THE LIFE BEYOND. 



CHAPTER I. 

A HANDFUL OF SAND. 

T HAVE always called him " The Mas- 
ter." This title seemed to be his by 
right of mental and moral superiority. 
He has been my most intimate and my 
most revered friend from childhood, — the 
soul of my soul, from whom I should re- 
gard it a sacrilege to hide either my hopes 
or my fears. A man formed " in the prod- 
igality of nature," he would, I am sure, 
advise me for my best good even at great 
cost to himself. I have never had cause 
to doubt either his wisdom or his un- 
selfishness. 

It may be a little difficult to fix the 
fine lineaments of his face in your mind's 



io The Life Beyond. 

eye; but I wish you might see him as I 
do, and love and trust him as I have done 
through many dark and joyful experi- 
ences. He is somewhat above the me- 
dium height, and spare in person. There 
is a slight stoop to his shoulders, caused 
perhaps by the fact that he has borne 
many burdens besides his own. His eyes 
are deeply blue, like the sky of a clear 
winter's day, and their gaze is as calm as 
the sea in summer. You are always con- 
scious, however, such is their searching 
power, that they not only look at you, 
but into and through you; not with the 
glance of curiosity, for no intrusive ques- 
tion has ever passed his lips, but with an 
evident desire to discover what is good, 
and to add a blessing to every fresh and 
beautiful impulse. 

He is so gentle that the most timid 
child finds a restful asylum in his arms; 
and yet behind the gentleness there is a 
rugged strength that never deigns to make 
a compromise with untruth or wrong. I 



A Handful of Sand. 1 1 

have seen him indignant on rare occasions ; 
but his wrath is that of the Lamb. When 
he utters burning words, they are fringed 
with pity, and remind one of the silver 
lining on the edge of a dark cloud. 

Had I been a Greek of the olden days 
and met him, I should have instinctively 
fallen on my knees, assured that he had 
strayed from Olympus. His voice, so rich 
and mellow; his bearing, so dignified and 
yet so attractive; his lack of selfishness, 
evident in every criticism and gesture, — 
marked him as an exceptional being ; not 
supernatural of course, but extra-natural ; 
not hopelessly beyond imitation, but far 
above the actual, as one who could talk 
with an angel on terms of equality. 

Through all the earliest years of my 
life when I dreamed dreams, and now in 
my middle age, when so many of those 
dreams are breaking their promise, he has 
been so wise and tender that I have come 
to regard him as my second Providence. 
He has sight and insight; not only sees 



12 The Life Beyond. 

what I wish him to see, but detects the 
omission if I fail to tell him all, as quickly 
as a musician discovers the loss of a pas- 
sage when listening to a symphony of 
Beethoven. Early in my acquaintance 
with him I learned, and with a heartache, 
that he must know everything or nothing. 
He was impatient of half truths and half 
statements, or of any attempt to escape 
censure by an understatement or an over- 
statement of facts, and would not be con- 
tent until I had told the exact truth and 
assumed my full share of blame in any 
quarrel. In other words, he first discov- 
ered me, and then revealed me to myself. 

One day my Master and I were stand- 
ing on the seashore. The boiling surf 
rumbled at our feet, and the south wind 
fanned our cheeks as the sun settled be- 
hind gorgeous clouds. Neither of us had 
spoken for several minutes ; the scene 
afforded all the companionship we needed. 
The proud Atlantic, restlessly rolling 
toward the sand on the flood-tide, or 



A Handful of Sand. 13 

restlessly withdrawing on the ebb, one 
vast expanse of water far as eye could 
reach; the little fishing-vessels, like sil- 
houettes against the sky, spreading their 
white sails that they might reach a lea 
before night fell; the great steamships, 
leaving long tracts of black smoke behind, 
just crossing the threshold of the harbor 
and bearing their freight of life and treas- 
ure to some farther shore ; behind us the 
drowsy villagers, their day's work done, 
preparing for well-earned slumber ; on the 
horizon's edge a range of hills crimsoned 
by the last rays of a declining day, — all 
this gave to meditation a strange and 
serene satisfaction. 

Then I grasped a handful of sand, and 
watched it as it slipped through my fin- 
gers. I sighed as I said, " Master, I can- 
not hold it." 

" It is the symbol of time," he answered. 
" It is yours for a moment only. Do your 
best, it escapes. The man is stronger 
than the child, but neither man nor child 



14 The Life Beyond. 

can hold it fast. Particle by particle it 
falls to the beach whence it came." 

" And that is very sad," I stoutly 
asserted. 

"Why so, my son?" 

" Because life is beautiful, and I would 
keep it as long as I may." 

" You mistake," he said. " Life is not 
beautiful, but the soul is beautiful. Time 
has little to do with happiness, or with 
achievement. The present is simply eter- 
nity in swaddling clothes. Why grow sad 
at the loss of these little days, when there 
are so many ones before you? What 
difference does it make to the spirit of 
man whether it is Here or There? Let 
the sand slip through your fingers; let the 
days come and go. These are matters of 
small consequence. You are rich in hav- 
ing the whole beach to draw from, though 
you require only a handful; and doubly 
rich in having the ages credited to your 
account, though you can use only a few 
days at a time." 



A Handful of Sand. 15 

" But life is so short, Master," I per- 
sisted. " I have a thousand plans, a thou- 
sand alluring hopes. The years in which 
to achieve are so few that I am discour- 
aged. I no sooner get ready than even- 
ing comes and the darkness shuts down." 

" Every day, every experience," replied 
the Master, solemnly, " is man's oppor- 
tunity. If you have courage, all goes 
well; if you are a coward, all goes ill. 
Think of these lines, for they hide a great 
truth:"— # 

u A craven hung along the battle's edge 
And thought, * Had I a sword of keener steel, — 
That true blade that the King's son bears. But this 
Blunt thing ! ' — he snapped and flung it from his hand. 

" Then came the King's son, wounded, sore bestead, 
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword 
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 
And ran and snatched it ; and with battle-shout 
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, 
And saved a great cause that heroic day." 

" You shame me, Master," I cried in 
mingled pain and pride, " with your cut- 
ting words. And yet, though I have been 



1 6 The Life Beyond. 

eager, my life is slipping away and little 
has been accomplished. Only yesterday 
I was young; to-day I am in middle life; 
to-morrow I shall be old ; the next day — " 

" Well/' he interrupted, " and the next 
day?" 

"Why, the next day I shall be in my 
grave," I answered firmly. 

" I am sorry, very sorry," and the Mas- 
ter gazed thoughtfully at the shadows 
which gathered over the water. 

"But is it not true?" I asked. 

" I hope not. I do indeed hope not. I 
cannot think of you, my dear friend, in a 
grave." 

" I do not mean quite that, perhaps," 
I replied. "Not I, but my body, — this 
house in which I live." 

"And you yourself?" he asked, with a 
warm glow in his tones. 

" Ah, well, as for what you call myself," 
— and I dropped the handful of sand, — 
" I shall be in the Beyond, possibly." 

" Possibly, my son ! Can you say no 



A Handful of Sand. 17 

more than that? Is immortality only a 
possibility? Then I do not wonder that 
you cling to these fleeting days and years, 
and lose them with regret. You doubt, 
therefore you fear. The certainty of an- 
other life is happiness; its uncertainty is 
despair. If the craft in which you set 
sail is not seaworthy, your voyage is but 
prolonged misery. If you suspect the 
skill of your captain, you are in dread 
every hour; but if the captain has weath- 
ered a hundred storms, and your craft is 
stanch, you laugh at the tempest, and 
the billows are mere playthings. To 
know that life is only the beginning, is to 
journey with a high heart; to fear that it 
may be the end, is to shiver and shrink as 
the years toll themselves into the past." 

"And you have no doubts?" I asked. 

"When I stand in the porch of the ca- 
thedral," he answered impressively, " I 
scan its beauties, and am glad and happy, 
but my chief enjoyment is one of antici- 
pation. The architect who designed and 



1 8 The Life Beyond. 

builded such a porch has by those acts 
promised me an entrance into the larger 
building. The porch is but the preface 
to the story which he will tell me later on ; 
no man builds a porch and then forgets 
to build the cathedral of which it is the 
threshold. I may linger as I gaze at the 
fine symbols which he has cut into marble, 
and marvel at his skill ; but after all I am 
not sorry when that lesser delight is ended, 
and the great baize curtains are drawn 
aside, and I am ushered into the main 
structure, whose nave stretches into the 
distance, whose dome, with its many col- 
ored lights, hovers over my startled little- 
ness, and whose organ-peals send a thrill 
of new-born happiness through my soul. 
Is it not so with you also, my son ? " 

" Not quite, dear Master/' I replied ; " I 
wish it were. I do not know that I have 
any positive apprehensions of the future, 
but when I think of it there is twilight in 
my heart. I am sure of to-day, can see 
it, feel it; I wish it would stay with me 



A Handful of Sand. 19 

forever. Sometimes when I sit alone in 
my room and hear that old Dutch clock 
tick the seconds away, I grow wild and 
desperate. My powerlessness irritates 
me, and when the dull, resounding gong 
strikes the hour, I feel like doing battle 
with Time, binding him hand and foot, 
and so prevent this awful robbery of 
precious moments." 

"Then you are not happy?" he asked. 

" No, except when I am too occupied 
to think of these things." 

" If you were sure — : " 

"Then I should sound this life to its 
depths, use every opportunity to the best 
of my ability, and with my half-finished 
plans and half-dreamed dreams, face the 
future with a hopefulness and a joy 
beyond expression." 

" Yes, yes," he mused ; " and you, my 
son, represent the average man? " 

" 1 fear so, Master." 

" The future is to many men a mere 
Perhaps/' 



20 The Life Beyond. 

" I dare not say it is anything more. 
And to you?" 

"To me? I sometimes think that if I 
could be as sure of this life as I am of the 
other, I should be happier." 

I looked my wonder, but did not utter it. 

" We must speak of this again," he said, 
at length. 

Then, without a word, we retraced our 
steps to the little cottage. 

u Good-night, my son," he said, as he 
took my hand. " We will now lie down 
in death for a few hours, and in the morn- 
ing the sun will wake us. Sleep? Is it 
not death? And is it not a refreshment? 
Good-night." 



CHAPTER II. 

FURNACE AND TRIP-HAMMER. 

A LITTLE later on my Master and I 
•* *• were sitting together before a bright 
fire. The darkness had crept upon us 
with slippered feet, but we did not care to 
call for lights. When one is in a thoughtful 
mood, the gloaming is an incentive ; our 
minds run smoothly when the twilight be- 
gins to deepen. There is something also 
very friendly, something that induces seri- 
ous conversation in an open-grate fire. 
The imagination is stirred, and we easily 
become confidential. When we talk to 
each other in the broad light of day, w T e 
instinctively restrain a free utterance, be- 
cause it seems as though all the world 
were listening; but when the room is in 



22 The Life Beyond. 

shadow, and the chairs look like spectres, 
and the pale and fitful light from the bits 
of coal is thrown on our faces, we feel 
quite alone, and willingly tell our secrets. 

" Master," I said, hardly knowing how 
to begin, "we all endure sorrow. That 
seems a strange, and at times a cruel, ne- 
cessity ; and our disappointments and 
griefs fall upon us by the multitude with 
crushing force." 

We were looking pensively into the 
fire, and as I broke one of the coals the 
flame threw its light on his beautiful face. 

" Yes, thank Heaven," he answered ; " it 
is one of the wise decrees of Providence 
that hearts should ache." 

Then we were silent for a full minute. 
What could the Master mean, I asked 
myself. I could not quite transfer my 
thoughts to his standpoint, and was 
puzzled. 

" It would seem," I said, at length, " as 
though our Father would like His chil- 
dren to be happy." 



Furnace and Trip-hammer. 23 

"So He does/' was the reply; "and for 
that reason He has sent afflictions into the 
world." 

u A paradox," I ventured to suggest. 

" The strongest foundation," the Master 
went on, — "the strongest and surest foun- 
dation for happiness is sorrow. Tears 
make our eyes telescopic. Dry eyes see 
the earth; wet eyes see the heavens. 
Tears are like a shower to the parched 
soil; they fructify the soul and make it 
rich in fruit. Without them life would be 
one long drought, and in the autumn our 
granaries would be empty." 

" You preach a strange doctrine, 
Master." 

" The man," he continued, not noticing 
my interruption, — " the man whose eyes 
have never been dimmed by disappoint- 
ment has lost something of incalculable 
value. Disappointment and grief are 
golden keys which open secret chambers 
where untold treasure is hidden." 

" But, Master, graveyards are many." 



24 The Life Beyond. 

" True, but graveyards are God's best 
evangelists. They preach with a solemn 
eloquence which must be heeded ; they 
teach the great lesson at a time when ears 
are open to hear. There is no sadness in 
a freshly opened tomb, if you remember 
one fact." 

" Master, go on ; I would learn that 
fact." 

" No sadness, if you remember that 
there are two doors to every tomb." 

"Two doors? Is not one enough?" 

" No, my son. One door means death 
and separation ; two mean life and re- 
union. There is a door on this side, which 
swings on rusty hinges ; there is also one 
on the other side, and it swings on golden 
hinges. With these eyes we see the first; 
with the eyes of faith we see the second. 
This one closes, and we go back to our 
homes sorrowful; the other one opens, 
and the released soul enters the glorious 
presence of God." 

"Then you think," I said, — 



Furnace and Trip-hammer \ 25 

" That Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction ; 
That oft the cloud which wraps the present hour 
Serves but to brighten all our future days ? " 

" I am sure," was the answer, " that 
the world would be intolerable without its 
sorrows; it would be impossible to live 
in it. A man without a grief is a man 
without a heart; no soul ripens except in 
the dark. Give men all they want, and 
you give them too much; God's with- 
holding is man's salvation." 

"But could not a world be made in 
which grief would be unnecessary? " 

"The Lord must answer that, my son, 
not I. I only know that as human nature 
is constituted, there must be night as well 
as day, storms as well as sunshine. There 
are certain qualities of character which 
would lie dormant but for sorrow; and 
they are the best qualities, — those we 
admire most and most covet. 

" The farmer's crops come from the 
sweat of his brow. He tears the quies- 
cent sod with the relentless cruelty of the 



26 The Life Beyond. 

plough; he exercises a wise providence 
over his acres, knows what is best for 
them, and in spite of their resistance runs 
the furrow to the end of the field. The 
worthless grass may cry out that it is con- 
tent as it is; but the farmer knows that 
the soil is capable of bearing something 
of greater value. He insists, and seems 
a tyrant, when in truth he is beneficent. 
The rude harrow completes the work of 
seeming destruction, and then the seed is 
scattered broadcast. The sun smiles on 
what has been done ; the dews distil their 
richness; the winds make music in the 
forests; the rains pour themselves in a 
flood. Then comes the glorious autumn. 
That field laughs with yellow sheaves of 
grain; it has accomplished a useful pur- 
pose. The grain at the end is the result 
of the plough at the beginning. 

" The soul is the field ; affliction is the 
plough. No farm without a plough; no 
heart without a grief." 

I could say nothing. My Masters fin- 



Furnace and Trip-hammer. 27 

gers were sweeping the strings of a harp 
whose mellow music was like a prayer. 
The fire in the grate began to sing, as 
cannel-coal sometimes does, and it seemed 
an approving response to what the Master 
said. 

"We are made of obdurate metal/' he 
continued, as his voice sank almost to a 
whisper, " and Heaven must needs smite 
us with terrible force. I saw a huge pile 
of rough, crude iron-ore just taken from 
the bow-els of a mountain ; it was useless, 
but full of possibilities. They threw it 
into a furnace seven times heated. When 
it came out like a mill-stream, it had been 
born again. The old worthless elements 
had been consumed, and it was a new 
creature. That furnace was apparently a 
great sorrow; the flames were cruel, and 
the heat was not to be endured. 

"But the period of tribulation was not 
yet ended. A little later on the bars into 
which it had been cast were heated to a 
white heat and placed under a trip-ham- 



28 The Life Beyond. 

mer. The sparks flew as the blows fell ; 
every flying spark was a remonstrance. 
But the designer who needed that iron for 
a special purpose shaped it to a plan of his 
own. It w T as no easy task; but the trip- 
hammer fell with redoubled energy, and at 
last the metal yielded. It took the shape 
required ; and if it had had consciousness, 
it would have been grateful for both 
hammer and furnace. 

" The soul must also go through the 
furnace and into the forge and under the 
trip-hammer ; it takes shape slowly, and 
then only by blows. God's hammer is 
God's love. He wishes us to be all we 
can be ; and affliction is the only means 
by which the end can be accomplished. " 

" But, Master, what is needed to enable 
men to find in sorrow what God has placed 
there?" 

" A better understanding of the divine 
law," he replied. " God's relations to the 
human soul depend entirely on that soul's 
attitude. God is always willing to be on 



Furnace and Trip-hammer. 29 

confidential terms with us ; but we are 
sometimes obstinate and blind. He tells 
us what to do — " 

" But gives no reasons why we must 
do it," I suggested. 

" True," he answered very gravely. " Do 
you know why He should, my son? The 
giant and the pygmy travel side by side a 
dangerous road. The giant simply says 
to the pygmy : 'The way is dark and beset 
by robbers. If you go alone, you are 
likely to fall and be destroyed. Put your 
hand in mine; we will go together, and 
you will be safe. Obey without question, 
and you shall soon see the gray dawn on 
the hilltops, and the day will brighten/ 
Why should the giant explain to the pygmy 
at such a time? The only duty of that 
undefended traveller is to listen to the 
voice of his friend, and to heed his words." 

"But, Master, it is hard to do that. 
The road is sometimes dreary; the w r eak 
soul becomes embarrassed ; and when the 
storm gathers — " 



so The Life Beyond. 

" When the storm gathers, my son, all 
the more need to trust One wiser than 
ourselves. Our bewilderment is dissipated 
by faith in the Great One; we can be 
calm if He promises to see us safely to the 
journey's end. What is danger to us is 
nothing to Him. He has travelled that 
self-same path before ; but we travel it for 
the first time. He knows the whole ; we 
know nothing. Our sole responsibility is 
quiet, unmurmuring obedience ; we must 
not wait to discuss, nor yet to be con- 
vinced that He can keep His word. The 
safety we have already enjoyed is the only 
proof of His power which He vouchsafes 
to grant. Is not that enough ?" 

He saw that my mind was still troubled 
and went on. 

"A child is afraid to cross the narrow 
bridge that spans the river. The roaring 
of the waters, the soughing of the wind, 
the feeling of uncertainty that creeps over 
him, make him tremble. He hears the 
voice of the father on the other bank. If 



Furnace and Trip-hammer. 31 

he says to his soul, 'That is my father; 
he is able to save me ; he has crossed this 
bridge, and knows every point of danger; 
I cannot fail, I cannot fall while he guides 
me ' • — if he says that, timidity becomes 
courage. The troubled mind is no longer 
troubled. Each step is firm. He simply 
listens and obeys. ' To the right, my 
child, that plank is weak/ * To the left, 
my child, that plank is strong/ — these are 
words of wisdom and comfort. He yields 
his own judgment to the keeping of that 
loving parent, draws on the higher wisdom 
and trusts nothing to his own ignorance. 
Then step by step he reaches the end and 
falls into the father's arms." 

" I would I had such faith as that, dear 
Master/' 

" The child has it, my son, why not the 
man?" 

u We want to know more, to see more," 
I replied. "We ought perhaps to surrender 
to this infinite wisdom; but it is difficult." 

" Yes," and the Master grew sad, — " yes, 



32 The Life Beyond. 

we are full of conceit. When God's way 
is our way, we are satisfied. When He 
asks us to walk by faith rather than sight, 
we demur. But what a world this would 
be, my son, if we trusted the Lord com- 
pletely ! How easily we should bear our 
burdens ! How hopefully we should meet 
the sorrows of life ! As the bee findeth 
honey in the weed, so we should find joy 
in bereavement. Then our griefs would 
be our opportunities. But we are self- 
willed ; not we, but God must bend. The 
father must beg the child to trust him. 
So the world weeps blindly, and without 
consolation. All is within reach ; but we 
possess nothing. The spirit starves; but 
the larder is full. It shivers with the cold 
when it need but move into the sunshine 
to be warm." 

Then he repeated these lines which have 
echoed in my heart ever since : — 

" Keep thine arms round all, O Father, 
Round lamenting and lamented; 
Round the living and repenting, 

Round the dead who have repented. 



Furnace and Trip-hammer. 33 

" Keep thine arms round all, O Father, 
That are left or that are taken ; 
For they all are needy, whether 
The forsaking or forsaken." 

The Master rose. He was worn with 
the day's work and needed rest. " Give me 
but faith/' he said, " and you may have 
all else. Without that, life is but linger- 
ing agony. With that, the world is a glad 
place to live in, even at midnight. Take 
from me my house, my home, my friends, 
my dear ones, if you will, but leave me 
that one jewel of great price, and I can 
rejoice, or at least I can endure. But give 
me all that men most covet, — fame, riches, 
honors, — and deprive me of my implicit 
confidence in God's love, and I am a use- 
less clod; my heart is broken, my en- 
thusiasm is gone, my hope withers. Faith 
is the lamp that guides my feet in slippery 
places and closes my eyes in refreshing 
slumber." 

He was gone. I sat there for hours 
alone; every now and again stirring the 

3 



34 The Life Beyond. 

coals to an unusual blaze and wondering 
if I could ever climb the heights on which 
the Master stood, and see the horizon 
lighted by the rising sun of an eternal 
morning as he saw it. 



CHAPTER III. 

PULLEYS AND WIRES. 

/^"VNE afternoon a messenger brought 
^-^ me a note from the Master. I was 
busy, but his wish was always my law. 
Of course he knew that I had little time to 
spare, because it was my only capital in 
trade; if, therefore, he requested me to 
give him any portion of it, it was because 
he felt that the expenditure would result 
to my benefit. 

The note ran : — 

" Come to me at your convenience. This 
afternoon if possible. Bring your mind and 
your heart with you." 

In half an hour I had his hand in mine. 
Evidently he was in an unusually serious 
mood, not sad, but pensively thoughtful. 



36 The Life Beyond. 

"My son," he began, "you are quite 
aware that I seldom deal in argument. I 
regard it as the poorest weapon in the 
religious arsenal. As a general rule men 
are not converted by discussion, but by 
the recognition of facts. True religion 
does not rest on logic, but on results pro- 
duced. The atheist may easily win in a 
controversy if he is the more alert dis- 
putant. What he states may seem con- 
vincing because his opponent has either 
used the wrong weapons, or used the right 
ones unskilfully. An unbeliever may carry 
off the laurels in a debate with a dull or 
unlearned Christian, though the everlast- 
ing truth may be with the latter. When, 
however, you place side by side the high- 
est results of infidelity and the best results 
of religion, logic is silenced. You have 
before you a question of fact. Admit that 
better qualities of character are developed 
by religion than by atheism, a serener 
kind of endurance under suffering, a larger 
hopefulness when death knocks at your 



Pulleys and Wires. 37 

door, and you have proved your case 
The dictum of science is that the theory 
which does the best work and produces 
the best results is more likely to be true 
than the theory which fails in either of 
these particulars. I care very little for 
mere argumentation, therefore, and spend 
my strength in watching the effect of 
Christianity on human hearts. On the 
whole, I am sure that the heart is worth 
more than the brain. But I have sent for 
you this afternoon because — " 

" You would break your rule, Mas- 
ter, and engage me in controversy?" I 
suggested. 

" No," he answered; "but because I 
wish to afford you an unusual opportunity 
to reason with yourself. In a word," he 
added, with half a smile on his lips, " I 
want to see you play a game of chess." 

I was surprised, startled, and to a cer- 
tain extent pained. He at once detected 
all these states of mind and gently replied : 

" I was never more in earnest in my life. 



3& The Life Beyond. 

I know nothing more important than the 
lesson which I hope you will teach your 
soul during that game." 

Of course I tried to stammer something 
in reply, but my embarrassment got the 
better of me. I was completely undone, 
and half inclined to think that the Master 
had begun to pay the penalty of overwork. 

"I see your embarrassment/' he said, 
" and will explain. Some months ago it 
was my good fortune to receive a sum of 
money. I need so little myself, my wants 
being few, that I looked about to find some 
worthy object on which to bestow it. 
Poor old Simeon Teets had been stricken 
with typhoid fever which carried him with- 
in hearing distance of heaven. But care- 
ful nursing and our friend Doctor Brink 
brought him back to health. He was 
almost sorry to return, however, for he had 
lost his situation and was hopelessly de- 
pendent. One of his neighbors had a 
pecuniary interest in an automaton chess- 
player, and he offered, for a specified sum 



Pulleys and Wires. 39 

to take Simeon into the firm. I gave him 
the money, and he tells me that he has 
been reasonably successful. The auto- 
maton is on exhibition a few blocks away, 
and as you are an expert at the game I 
thought you might explain certain things 
which have seemed to me very mysterious. 
Will you go?" 

I confess, I had not yet recovered from 
my astonishment, but I assented with 
such cheerfulness as I could command. 
I thought of Dean Swift's pathetic predic- 
tion: "I shall be like that tree, — I shall 
die at the top." We are apt to forget 
that in the hands of a wise man the slight- 
est incident may become a matter of great 
moment. The dear Lord illustrated some 
of His divine teachings by the birds of the 
air, the fall of a sparrow, the tares of the 
field, and the homely occurrences of every 
day life. The Master, as I very soon 
learned, had in mind one- of the most 
solemn problems man has ever tried to 
solve. It was not an hour of leisurely 



40 The Life Beyond. 

pleasure to which he was leading me ; but 
a matter that underlies our life as a cor- 
ner-stone underlies the temple which it 
upholds. 

We reached the little hall in which the 
exhibition was held, and, fortunately for 
us, there were few visitors. Simeon greeted 
the Master with something like reverence, 
and me with simple courtesy. He had 
evidently expected our visit, and was 
prepared to puzzle me as much as 
possible. 

" We will examine the automaton, if 
you please," said the Master. 

Thereupon Simeon opened a door in 
the wooden image and asked me to make 
myself acquainted with whatever was hid- 
den therein. I saw a curious and interest- 
ing complication of wires and pulleys. 
What real relation they had to the several 
movements of head, eyes, and arms was 
beyond my ken. He opened another 
and still another door, through each of 
which I thrust my hand, but could dis- 



Pulleys and Wires. 41 

cover nothing except more pulleys and 
wires. It was a very curious and perfect 
bit of mechanism. 

" You have seen through these several 
doors the whole inside?" asked Simeon. 

11 It would seem so," I answered doubt- 
fully. 

" You discover no place in which a man 
or even a boy could hide himself? " asked 
the Master. 

" No," I replied ; " there is apparently 
no room for anything more than what I 
have seen." 

" Then, if you are quite satisfied on that 
point," said Simeon, " perhaps you will 
take a seat at the front of the automaton 
and play a game with him." 

I took the chair indicated and advanced 
the king's pawn. After a brief interval 
the wooden hand rose, and the stiff fingers 
answered my move. The game went on 
briskly for some time ; but I soon discov- 
ered that I was playing with no novice. 
The least slip on my part was taken advan- 



42 The Life Beyond. 

tage of. I was forced to summon all my 
resources ; and even then it was, for thirty 
minutes, uncertain which contestant would 
make the checkmate. The automaton 
forced me to place my king in an exposed 
position, and then with such alertness 
drove me to its defence that I was in con- 
stant danger. I applied myself to the task 
with increasing and almost tremulous en- 
ergy; but my opponent pressed me at 
every point. An indiscreet move on my 
part laid bare my queen's rook, after 
which followed a check and the rook's 
capture. I then fought a losing game, 
and was positively relieved when, by a 
sudden exchange of pieces, the auto- 
maton threw his knight into a strong 
position, and with his kings bishop 
effected a checkmate. I had played my 
best, but lost the game. The automaton 
was more expert than I, and my pride 
was humbled. 

All this time the Master stood by my 
side carefully watching the varying vicissi- 



Pulleys and Wires. 43 

tudes of the play. That angular, wooden 
arm of the automaton, awkward to the last 
degree, always lifted the right piece, al- 
ways laid it down in the right place, and 
never made a mistake. 

" A very interesting contest between a 
man and a machine," the Master said 
slowly and gravely. 

I had no reply to make, but smiled my 
incredulity, and shrugged my shoulders. 

" It seems," he added, " that a brain is 
not the only vehicle of intelligence. The 
cunning artisan can make a substitute 
which does just as good work, and in this 
case better." 

" Master," I replied, " I have not been 
playing chess with that wooden image." 

"No?" he asked inquiringly. 

II Certainly not," I answered ; " there 
is a brain like mine hidden somewhere in 
that automaton. Wires and pulleys are 
not able to checkmate me." 

" But, my son, you examined the auto- 
maton. You opened every door, did you 



44 The Life Beyond. 

not, and declared at last that neither boy 
nor man could be concealed on the inside. 
Your investigation was as complete as you 
could make it; and you have the evidence 
of your senses that there was and could be 
nothing but wires and pulleys." 

" Still," I replied rather warmly, " I am 
willing to accuse myself of having been 
entirely duped by my senses. The exam- 
ination appeared to be exhaustive ; but in 
reality it was not so." 

" Why do you come to that conclusion, 
my son?" 

" Because I am convinced beyond the 
possibility of a doubt that no machinery, 
however skilfully devised, can adapt itself 
to the uncertainty of my moves. If it 
were known beforehand that I should 
move a given number of pawns and pieces 
in a prescribed way, it might then be 
possible to mechanically prepare for each 
move. But the automaton had no means 
of knowing whether my next move would 
be with knight or bishop ; and yet, in every 



Pulleys and Wires. 45 

instance, he met my attack and repelled 
me. Therefore — " 

" Yes," broke in the Master; " I am in- 
terested to know what conclusion you 
reach." 

" Therefore," I went on, " there must be 
a man with a brain hidden inside that 
wooden man, whether I am able to dis- 
cover his whereabouts or not." 

" You seem to be very positive on that 
point," said the Master. 

" I am more than positive ; I am ab- 
solutely certain," I replied. " I think I 
would stake my life on the truth of that 
statement." 

" And yet you have not seen him," 
mused the Master. 

" No ; but I have played chess with him, 
nevertheless." 

" And you sought for him/' he con- 
tinued, "and could not find him. It 
would therefore appear reasonable, would 
it not, to suppose, that there is no man 
of flesh inside the man of wood, but that 



46 The Life Beyond. 

what was done was done by machinery 
alone ?" 

I shook my head. " It is not possible 
to convince me of that." 

" Then you will admit, my son," he 
added with great seriousness, " that there 
may be a man within a man; and so care- 
fully hidden that with your utmost re- 
search you cannot say, ' He is here/ or 
'He is there'?" 

" I not only admit it," I answered, " but 
I assert it, and challenge contradiction." 

" I think you have reasoned well," said , 
the Master. " We shall soon see." 

Simeon, who had been listening in an 
amused way to this dialogue, led us once 
more to the rear of the figure. He opened 
the doors through which we had before, 
peered; but nothing was visible. Then he 
touched a secret spring, and another door 
flew open. To my astonishment I saw a 
man crouched in what must have been a 
very uncomfortable position. Where he 
found sufficient room for his body, arms, 



Pulleys and Wires. 47 

and legs is still a mystery to me. But 
there he was, nevertheless ; and it was he 
and not the man of wood with whom I 
had played the game. 

At a word, and with a series of contor- 
tions, he managed to crawl out of his hid- 
ing place, and seemed greatly relieved at 
his freedom. 

" I was right, Master," I said trium- 
phantly, — " I was right in boldly assert- 
ing that there was a man inside the man, 
and that it was the inside man who check- 
mated me." 

" Yes," he answered slowly. " Yes ; you 
were quite right. Now let us be going." 

When we reached the street, he turned 
to the north ; whereas our homes were to 
the south. 

" Master," I ventured to say, " we have 
taken the wrong road." 

" No," he answered ; " this is right. We 
have still an hour before sundown, and I 
have something else to show you. You 
reason so skilfully that I would like to 



48 The Life Beyond. 

have you do it once more. We have not 
far to go ; and I think you will be repaid 
for your pains." 

We were, both of us, disinclined to con- 
versation ; so I walked at his side, his arm 
in mine, and said nothing. Silence is 
sometimes eloquent; and sometimes it is 
companionable. We do not always need 
to speak in order to convey our thoughts. 
I saw what the Master wanted to impress 
on my mind, — namely, that there is a man 
within a man, that the two are wholly 
distinct and independent of each other. 
He showed his usual tact by making 
no reference to the subject, but allow- 
ing it time to become firmly fixed in my 
mind. 

We turned into the tenement district. 
Ah, how the Master was loved by those 
lowly folk ! He had a kindly word for 
every one; though sometimes it was a 
w r ord of advice or warning. He reminded 
me of the Christ in the streets of Jeru- 
salem. There was a calm authority in all 



Pulleys and Wires. 49 

he said and did which it would have 
seemed sacrilege to question. I whis- 
pered to my heart: When the Master 
passes on to his reward, his epitaph 
should be, " The poor were sorry when 
he died." The love which those tene- 
ment lodgers bore him had something of 
reverence in it; and the reverence with 
which they bowed as he passed had much 
of love in it. 

Up three flights we found our way, or 
rather stumbled ; and then he knocked at 
a door. The woman who opened it was 
in tears. 

" He 's going fast," she sobbed. " The 
doctor has just been here, and he says it 's 
pretty nearly over. Poor Tom ! How 
can I spare him?" 

" Mary," said the Master, " if the Lord 
calls him, you can spare him. Tom is 
needed in heaven; the Lord has sent for 
him. Would you keep him, Mary? " 

The appeal well-nigh broke the woman's 
heart. I have never seen greater anguish. 

4 



So The Life Beyond. 

But the Master was as calm as he was 
gentle. 

Then he turned to me. u Did you 
hear/' he asked, " what this poor woman 
said, my son? Her words were, ' He's go- 
ing fast ! ' That is the language of a faith- 
ful, trusting soul. It befits the noblest ele- 
ments of our human nature. He 's going ! 
Not simply the life, my son, but he." 

Tom heard his step, and possibly his 
whispered words of comfort to the wife. 
As we entered the room he beckoned to 
the Master. His speech was very feeble, 
for there were only a few sparks of vitality 
left; but he was cheerful and resigned. 
After a little that strange pallor came over 
his face which always means that the Mes- 
senger has arrived. Tom took a last long 
look at the world, then gasped, " Good- 
by, Molly," and was gone. 

We knelt by the bedside, and the Mas- 
ter prayed. I never knew till that moment 
the real significance of prayer. The Mas- 
ter seemed sure that the Lord would hear 



Pulleys and Wires. 51 

him and grant his requests, provided the 
higher wisdom deemed it expedient. 
There was in his petition a certain assur- 
ance, like that of a son who feels that he 
has a right to consult with his father, and 
at the same time a profound humility 
which kept self, even with its eagerness 
for assistance, in the background, and was 
satisfied to state the matter as the peti- 
tioner understood it, and then leave it 
in the hands of the Being whom he 
addressed. It was an impressive prayer, 
but full of unwavering faith, and calm, 
serene confidence. 

Mary left the room for a little ; and the 
Master summoned me to his side by the 
body of poor Tom. 

" My son," he said, " a wonderful change 
has occurred in the career of this dear 
sleeper. An hour ago these ears could 
hear, these eyes could see, these lips could 
speak. You heard the last words he ut- 
tered. If you speak to him now, he will 
not respond. He hears nothing ; he sees 



52 The Life Beyond. 

nothing; that hand lies limp on the cov- 
erlid. This body is like the wooden image 
of the automaton; there you had wires 
and pulleys, — a marvellous arrangement 
of mechanical skill. Here you have 
nerves and muscles, — a device so cun- 
ning, so artistic, so perfect in every part, 
that genius may try to duplicate it in vain. 
You could not find the man within the 
man when you searched the wooden im- 
age ; and a similar investigation, while Tom 
lived, would have had the same result. 
In both cases the man within the man 
was so deftly concealed that he was un- 
discoverable." 

I bowed my head in affirmation ; but the 
tears welled into my eyes. I felt the full 
force of what the Master said, and saw 
why he had sent me that note. I had 
passed, or was passing, through the most 
solemn experience of my life, and the red 
blood of suppressed excitement tinged my 
cheeks. 

"You argued," he continued, "that 



Pulleys and Wires. 53 

though you could find nobody hidden in 
the automaton, there must be — that was 
the phrase you used — there must be some 
one there. When I asserted that the wires 
and pulleys were playing chess with you, 
you repudiated the statement, and became 
still more emphatic that there was some 
one in that wooden man who not only 
checked but checkmated you. Then your 
statementwas proved true. Simeon opened 
a door which had escaped your notice, and 
the real chess-player stepped out. He was 
glad to get away from his narrow quarters, 
and felt a sense of freedom in the use of 
his limbs." 

Again I nodded. 

" The same argument holds good here. 
Tom was concealed within these confining 
limits. While thus imprisoned he used all 
this marvellous machinery. He spoke to 
you through these lips, looked at you 
through these eyes, and extended this 
emaciated hand in welcome. " 

I was in a whirl of conflicting thoughts. 



54 The Life Beyond. 

The scene seemed to suffocate me. I ner- 
vously caught my breath, and felt myself 
trembling from head to foot. 

" Some one — we call him Death," went 
on the Master — " has unbarred that other 
door. Tom has stepped out; and what 
you now see is only a wonderful bit of 
mechanism. " 

" Enough, my Master, enough," I 
hoarsely whispered ; " I can endure no 
more. I have learned your lesson." 

" Then," he replied, " we will be 
grateful." 

We parted at the street corner. His 
last words were, " My son, there is always 
a man within the man; and death is the 
gentle warden of his prison-house, who, 
when the order for release comes, takes 
the key from his girdle, unlocks the door, 
and sets the prisoner free. Farewell." 
And he was gone. 



CHAPTER IV. 

AN UNFINISHED BUILDING. 

TV T OVEMBER is a cheerless, dreary 
-^ ^ month; but when you sit in front 
of a bright open fire it loses its terrors. 
I have a certain disdain for what are 
named modern improvements, — furnace- 
heated houses, running water in every 
room, weather strips which hermetically 
seal the room and make it as unhealthy as 
possible; so when I inherited a little 
snuggery, I had all these so-called " con- 
veniences " removed, very much to the 
suppressed disgust of some of my friends, 
and determined to be comfortable in my 
own way. 

Among other things which I insisted 
upon was a fireplace of the old-fashioned 
sort, nearly six feet wide. In the cool 
autumn days a lump of cannel-coal would 



56 The Life Beyond. 

give me all the light and heat I wanted ; 
but when winter set in, — say the last of 
November, — with its penetrating winds 
and its flying snow-flakes, I cheered my- 
self with a huge back-log, which would 
burn and sputter for hours, and an arm- 
ful of smaller stuff for purposes of illumi- 
nation. 

That was the room in which the Master 
and I were wont to sit. His conversation 
flowed like a stream of molten silver, and 
I was a good listener. He delighted to 
recite the experiences of the day, and 
to use them as clews which helped us to 
grope our way through many dark and 
troublous problems. 

One afternoon — it was Sunday — we 
walked to church together. On the way 
we passed a huge building, at the corner 
of the street, in process of construction. 
After the manner of the Christ, he found 
a lesson in it. He stood for some minutes 
gazing at its comely proportions, and at 
last said, — 



An Unfinished Building. 57 

"A noble structure, my son." 

"Yes," I answered; "it will be when 
completed. " 

11 Completed?" he asked. "Is it not 
already complete?" 

" Why, Master," I said, " can you not 
see that it is quite imperfect? The roof 
is not yet on; there are no windows; 
the floors are merely scaffoldings; and 
here, scattered all about us, are piles of 
material." 

"Yes," he answered musingly; " I have 
noticed all these things ; but, my son, there 
are no workmen here. One would think 
the end had been reached, would they 
not? And yet it seems sad that an edi- 
fice with such promise should never be 
finished." 

11 Master," I hastened to say, " you are 
curiously mistaken. I have watched this 
building from the very beginning; I have 
seen it grow stone by stone. Moreover, 
the architect is my personal friend, and he 
has permitted me to look at the plans. 



5 8 The Life Beyond. 

In its present rude condition it is compar- 
atively unsightly; but when a few more 
months have passed it will be one of the 
finest buildings in the city. The laborers 
are not here, because it is the Sabbath; 
but to-morrow morning they will be at 
work again." 

He looked at me with a strange gleam 
in his eyes. 

" So you believe the work will go on, 
my son? " 

" Most assuredly, Master." 

" And why do you believe it?" he 
asked. 

" For a thousand reasons," I replied. 

" Give me one," he said. 

" Well, because incomplete buildings 
are of no use. It would be worse than 
folly to begin such a work and not finish 
it." 

" Worse than folly? " he repeated. " Is 
not that strong language?" 

" Strong, but not too strong," I replied. 
" The supposition that an edifice like that 



An Unfinished Building. 59 

should be left in its present condition 
needs rather vehement repudiation." 

" You argue, then," he broke in, " from 
what you know of the nature of the 
building itself; and you feel a degree of 
assurance when you state that some time 
hence it will be more than it is now." 

" Of course, Master. What a blunder 
it would be to dig deep for such founda- 
tions as those; to go to an enormous 
expense to quarry rock and purchase 
timber, and then leave the structure as it 
is to-day." 

" Give me another reason," he added 
calmly. " I am greatly interested." 

" Why, I know what the building is in- 
tended for: it is to be a warehouse for 
costly importations. It will hold vast 
values ; but as it is now, it is useless for this 
purpose. With no roof and no windows, 
the rains would beat in and destroy every- 
thing; with no floors, the fabrics would be 
endangered ; and with no doors for pro- 
tection, thieves could break in and steal." 



60 The Life Beyond. 

"Have you still another reason ?" he 
asked. 

" Certainly, Master. The architect has 
a reputation ; he has earned it in many 
ways, by other structures, a score of them, 
which are used for like purposes. He 
would be adjudged not simply unwise, but 
unworthy of his profession, if he should 
carry a project with such possibilities only 
thus far and no farther." 

" Then from what you know of the 
builder," he said, " and from what you 
know of the building itself, — that is, the 
purposes which it is capable of fulfilling, — 
you conclude that what you see is not all, 
but that this incompleteness is to give 
way to completeness in the future?" 

" Precisely, my Master." 

" What real strength have your argu- 
ments?" he persisted. " Do you simply 
entertain an opinion, or have you a decided 
conviction? " 

"Why," I answered, "it is a conviction 
so conclusive that the world would have 



An Unfinished Building. 61 

to be turned upside down, and all the re- 
sults of my experience reversed, before I 
could admit the possibility of a doubt. If 
I know anything at all; if I can in any 
degree rely on my observation, — I am 
as sure as I am that the sun will rise 
to-morrow." 

" You are indeed confident/' he an- 
swered, and then we walked on. 

At last the drift of his questioning be- 
came apparent. For fully ten minutes 
neither of us spoke; we were too much 
absorbed in our own thoughts for conver- 
sation. At length, however, I ventured to 
ask, " Master, why do you believe that the 
soul is immortal ?" 

" Because," he answered very deliber- 
ately, " its development is incomplete at 
death, and God never begins a work 
without finishing it." 

" The soul is like that building," I 
suggested. 

" In many respects, yes, my son. I 
think I know something of the plan of 



62 The Life Beyond. 

the Architect. The work He has laid out 
cannot be done in time, only begun. It 
must be finished, if finished at all, in 
eternity. ,, 

Then the conversation dropped, because 
we were at the door of the little chapel. 
In the evening, however, the subject was 
resumed; and by that open fire we talked 
and mused until the warning tones of the 
old clock in the corner forced us to part. 
He spoke in staccato phrases; and I 
noted them down as they fell from his 
lips : — 

" We hardly get ready to live before 
death knocks at our doors. Our powers 
gradually mature, as the years with their 
heat and frost go by ; and at the end we 
are conscious that we can do much more 
and much better if we have the opportu- 
nity. Is it possible that that opportunity 
will be denied us? 

" No man ever accomplished all that 
could reasonably be required of him. 
However faithful he may be, he must 



An Unfinished Building. 63 

needs leave his work unfinished. He is 
an arrested development when we lower 
his body into the grave. 

" We believe in immortality from in- 
stinct. Unbelief, like the taste for certain 
fruits, is not natural ; it repudiates the one 
thing which we crave with unappeasable 
appetite. 

" You are forced to reason yourself out 
of a belief in immortality; and when your 
reason has done its best, and accomplished 
its task, the hope still lingers that the rea- 
soning is not conclusive. No man ever 
rejoices that a future life is denied him. 

" This faith is the cradle in which all 
the higher virtues are rocked. 

" Give me that one glorious conviction 
as my soul's anchor, and I can outride all 
storms. When doubt becomes my anchor, 
it drags in the tempest, and my soul goes 
ashore, a wreck. 

" If a man dies when he dies, it were 
better he had never been born; God 
made a mistake in creating him. 



64 The Life Beyond. 

" The bereavement which looks into the 
grave is leaden; the bereavement which 
dares to look toward the stars with hope 
is golden. 

" If the heart says ' Finis/ it is wounded 
beyond all surgery. If it says ' to be con- 
tinued/ it is like a Toledo blade which 
bends but cannot snap." 



CHAPTER V. 



"A LITTLE NEARER HOME." 



VERY abruptly opened a conversation 
•*■ with the Master one evening by saying, 
as I roughly used my iron wand on the 
logs in the big fire-place and raised a 
glorious shower of sparks, — 

" Master, what is your attitude toward 
honest doubt? " 

11 One of admiration for the honesty," 
he replied, " and of pity for the doubt." 

"Why pity?" I inquired. 

" Because that condition of mind which 
calls up from the vasty deep a group of 
ghostly uncertainties instead of eternal 
and inspiring verities is depressing and 
debilitating. Universal doubt would be 
the equivalent of universal barbarism; 
universal faith is the equivalent of pro- 

5 



The Life Beyond. 
gress. The world will „ ot run smooth] 
on negates. Hu ma „ nature is so con- 
StltUted that * -t have some stro" 
conv^ons or it can do no good work/ 

I have never seen a man," I continued, 

whose f aith seemed to be as vivid as 

yours ,, You have positively no fear of 

orda,' XT ^ Shrinkl '"g f-m the 
tl T " " atUraI t0 h — -ture." 

Why should I shrink? "he asked. 

Because it is a leap into the dark » I 
suggested. ' L 

"On the contrary," he replied quickly, 

^s leap from the dark into the light 
If one s inc ome has been limited to cop- 
Per corns, and he has lived within the nar- 
row environment of such purchases as 

~ pres - nts ' WOUId he shrink *£ 

accephng a p.ece of g o]d , which will af- 
ford h,m the comforts which he has often 
beamed of but never possessed? D 
a -an shrink when he falls heir to a large 

n: a k: ? th Thi V ifeiSWe,lenOUgh - ^ 
make the mght beautiful; and its waving 



"A Little Nearer Home." 67 

fields of grain rejoice the heart. I am 
grateful for the grandeur and suggestive- 
ness of my surroundings, and must try to 
get the best there is, and appropriate it 
to my personal use. Every day brings 
its separate enjoyment; and it is a great 
privilege to live in these lower rooms of 
the Father's mansion. But why should I 
complain if the Owner of the House sends 
me word that He has prepared a more 
commodious .apartment, and would be 
glad to have me move into it. If I have 
lived rightly, I deem it an honor and a 
privilege to die." 

" I think Hamlet represents my feel- 
ings and my fears/' I answered, " in these 
words : " — 

° To die : to sleep; 
No more ; and by a sleep to say we end 
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 't is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep ; 
To sleep : perchance to dream : ay, there 's the rub ; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause." 



68 The Life Beyond. 

The Master sat silent for a moment. 
Then he said, " My son, a certain dread 
of death is necessary to the preservation 
of life. If men were otherwise constituted, 
we should be unwilling to remain in this 
disappointing world. If the gorgeous bat- 
tlements of heaven were visible, and we 
could look from our burdens to its rest 
and peace, from our tears and struggles to 
its surpassing joys, self-slaughter would 
become a universal custom. Why live in 
a hut, when, by a moment's pain, we could 
transport ourselves to a palace? The 
longing for the other life would be so 
intense that all the higher purposes of 
this life would be frustrated. " 

" I see," I said, " and if I remember, 
there is a little poem by Stedman which 
contains the same thought. Let me read 
it to you, Master:" — 

" Could we but know 
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 

Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, — 
Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil 

Aught of that country could we surely know, 
Who would not go ? 



"A Little Nearer Home" 69 

" Might we but hear 
The hovering angel's high imagined chorus, 

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, 
One radiant vista of the realm before us, — 
With one rapt moment given to see and hear, 
Ah, who would fear ?" 

" The child of a king," continued the 
Master, " is sent to an obscure village that 
he may be educated. Discipline is neces- 
sary that he may rightly rule when he 
comes into his inheritance. That he may 
become perfectly developed, he must keep 
in mind two things : First, that he is not a 
peasant, but a king's son. If this be- 
comes a vivid fact, it will be a constant 
incentive. He must bear himself like a 
prince, and commit no act unworthy of his 
station; he will disdain whatever is sor- 
did and mean, be frank, honest, generous 
and charitable. Then, second, he must 
not forget that his father occupies the 
throne, and that he will sometime be called 
to the enjoyment of his inheritance. That 
thought will lift him above his poor sur- 
roundings. When trouble comes, and hard- 



70 The Life Beyond. 

ship and wretchedness, he will say to his 
soul, ' I must be patient. My father knew 
that these things would happen when he 
placed me here. I will tell him of my 
sufferings, and he will help me to bear 
them. By and by, he will send his 
messenger, and then I shall enter into 
power/ 

" But he is told that he cannot get to 
the father's house, even when summoned, 
except by a very painful experience, and 
being weak and timid, he is appalled. As 
your Hamlet says, 'There's the rub.' His 
peasant's life presses upon him so heavily 
that he even doubts whether after all he 
is the son of a king whom he has never 
seen, whether this lower life of his is not 
the only reality, and the promised life in 
the palace a beautiful but deceptive dream. 
If his doubt goes far enough, he fears the 
change which will transport him to the 
* new condition of things, clings with in- 
creasing tenacity to his drudgery, his 
thatched cottage, his hard fare and harder 



"A Little Nearer Home." 71 

bed ; and in the end the prince's aspirations 
take flight and he is left a mere peasant, 
without pride of birth or hope for the 
future. He gravitates to lower things and 
becomes as poor in thought and ambition 
as he is poor in purse. His heart grows 
sluggish and selfish, and he ends a higher 
order of animal. Without faith in the 
future, this life is a dungeon. You must 
dethrone God before you deny immor- 
tality. If the one exists, the other follows 
as a matter of course." 

" Master," I said, for I saw he was in 
such a mellow mood that he would lay bare 
his heart, " you have often promised to 
tell me the story of your father's last 
hours. I do not seek to intrude on such 
sacred privacy, but our conversation must 
remind you of that sad period, and the 
occasion seems to befit the recital." 

" It was not a sad experience, my 
son," he replied, after a moment's hesi- 
tation. " Rather, one so hallowed by 
trusting confidence that after five and 



72 The Life Beyond. 

twenty years it makes my heart glow 
with gratitude." 

" Is it so long since he died? " I asked. 

" Five and twenty years," he mused, as 
he gazed into the blazing fire, " and yet 
it seems but yesterday." 

"His age, Master?" 

"Just beyond fifty, in the vigor and 
prime of life. And yet no broken column 
represents his life. My son, there are no 
broken columns in God's providence. His 
work was done, and well done. Dear, 
white-haired man! — tender and true; a 
jewel without a flaw; a soul without a 
blemish." 

The Master was slowly drawing aside 
the veil; and I did not venture to interrupt 
him with a question. The moon had 
dropped behind the hills, and deep dark- 
ness had fallen on the landscape. The 
only sound I heard was the deep bay 
of the faithful watch-dog, as he warned 
us that some stranger was passing by, 
or the soughing of the wind in the 



"A Little Nearer Home." 73 

branches of the pines near by; and yet 
no sense of loneliness marred that quiet 
evening hour. 

" The janitor of the college/' began the 
Master, " knocked at my door just after 
morning prayers one day, and placed in 
my hand a telegram. In those times, and 
with the people among whom I was born, 
the telegraph was seldom used except in 
great emergencies. My heart stood still, 
and my eyes filled with tears. It was 
only after a great effort that I forced 
myself to open the message. Then I dis- 
covered that my father had had a severe 
hemorrhage and was weak from loss of 
blood. There was nothing specially alarm- 
ing in the information, for the dear man 
had suffered in a like manner on former 
occasions; but there was something be- 
tween the lines which made me tremble. 
The words which one omits to write convey 
sometimes more information than those 
that are sent. I read my mother's mind 
when she penned that message, and knew 



74 The Life Beyond. 

perfectly what she longed to say but re- 
frained from saying for fear of its effect 
on me. I often wonder, my son, if there 
are not two telegraphs at work at the same 
time, — the one operated by an employee, 
and the other by mysterious agencies 
which we as yet know little about. Be 
that as it may, I really received two mes- 
sages, — the first by wire, announcing my 
father's illness, and the other by impres- 
sion, bidding me come home as quickly 
as possible." 

I would have interrupted the Master's 
narrative at this point, for he had hinted at 
a very interesting subject, and one con- 
cerning which we have all had some 
strange and inexplicable experiences. 
Events do make themselves known by 
throwing the shadow of their coming 
through many miles of distance until it 
falls on the heart of the person who is 
most affected by them; the pages of 
history are full of incidents of this kind. 
But I gazed at the sparks in the old fire- 



"A Little Nearer Home." 75 

place as they flew upward, and said 
nothing. 

" When I reached the house," continued 
the Master, " my father stood in the door- 
way to welcome me. He knew I would 
come on the wings of the wind ; and in 
spite of his feebleness he had dressed, 
taken his seat by the window to watch, and 
then, when he saw me, came forward to 
greet me. At the first glimpse of his wan 
face I almost staggered. It was so pale, 
and in the eyes was such a far away look 
that I thought my heart would break. 
But I quickly overcame my emotions for 
his sake, took his hand, and kissed his 
cheek as I always did after a separation. 

" ' I am glad to see thee, my boy/ he 
said with an air of weariness ; but I was too 
full to make reply, and he led the way 
into our little parlor. 

" ■ Vou have been ill, Father? ' I said. 

" * Yes/ was the reply, in soft, low tones ; 
1 more ill than ever before/ It was clear 
that he was thinking profoundly, that he 



?6 The Life Beyond. 

had faced the emergency, and put aside 
all its terrors. His manner was calm, too 
calm, and his speech was so full of gen- 
tleness and affection that I felt already 
bereaved. 

" ' But, Father/ I said with such cheer- 
fulness as I could summon, ' a few days 
rest and — ' 

" Then he interrupted me, saying with a 
significance which pierced me to the soul: 
' My boy, I am glad you came home/ 

" I knew what he meant; and he knew 
that I knew it. That was enough. The 
subject was never referred to again. We 
understood each other; and there was 
nothing to do but to get ready for an 
event whose coming could not be delayed. 

" Shortly afterward he retired to his 
chamber, and never rose again. Day 
and night I was with him for four weeks, 
only snatching, now and then, an hour 
or two of troubled sleep. The tide of 
life was on the ebb; every day found 
him a little weaker. But the mind re- 



" A Little Nearer Home." 77 

tained its wonted clearness, I had almost 
said vigor. 

" When I took his poor, thin hand in 
mine and whispered, ' Father, how is it 
with you ? ' he always replied, — 

" ' A little nearer home, my son/ 

"That was his attitude. The journey 
was drawing to a close, and with each 
passing hour he was ' a little nearer home/ 

" There was a period of suffering, not 
of pain, but of great discomfort. It 
seemed an effort for the heart to con- 
tinue its beating. 

" ' What day is it?' he asked. 

" ' Tuesday, Father/ I answered. 

" Then he looked at me with those 
beautiful blue eyes and said, ' To-mor- 
row will be Wednesday/ and fell into a 
doze. 

"On Wednesday, at daybreak, he called 
for me. The sun threw its slanting rays 
through the window, and the cool, fresh 
breeze crept into the room. We were 
alone together. The tide was ebbing fast, 



78 The Life Beyond. 

and ere many hours my watching would 
be over. 

" ' My boy/ he said, ' at sunset we must 
part. When the stars come out to-night, 
I shall not be here/ 

"That was more than I could bear. I 
hurried to the window, and fell into a 
paroxysm of tears. A terrible shudder 
went through my frame, and for the mo- 
ment I was beside myself. I was ner- 
vously weakened by the long strain of 
anxiety, and could bear no more. When 
I returned to his side, I saw that his lips 
were trembling, and I reproached myself 
for my weakness. Who was I, that I 
should be considered at such a time as 
that? 

" He stretched out his hand and laid it 
on mine. ' My boy/ he said, ' God 
knows best. This parting is hard for you 
and for me ; but we shall meet again/ 

" ' Father/ I asked, ' have you no fears 
of death? ' 

" He slowly shook his head. 



"A Little Nearer Home." 79 

" 'The way is not dark, my father? ' 

" Again he shook his head. Then his 
eyes rested apparently on the ceiling; but 
I knew that he was looking into the Be- 
yond, and the sweet smile on his lips told 
me that he saw what I could not see, and 
that the vision gave him comfort and 
strength. 

" g Tell me, dear father/ I cried with un- 
suppressed emotion, — 'tell me all that lies 
on your heart, all which it is permitted to 
me to know.' 

" ' My boy/ he whispered, for with every 
passing moment he was growing weaker, 
1 in a little while I shall be free. This 
suffering will be over. I shall be myself 
again. I shall be like one who leaves the 
room softly, and closes the door behind 
him. Perhaps you will hear my footsteps 
on the other side ; but through that closed 
door you cannot look. You will still be 
here, and I shall be there. Death means 
no more than that. My love for you will 
continue. If the Lord wills, I shall watch 



80 The Life Beyond. 

over you in the years to come. And when 
you grow gray, as I am now, and lie, as I 
lie, on the bed of death, you will see the 
same open door through which I shall 
pass, and you will close it behind you, as 
I must. But when you cross the thresh- 
old, I will be there, if possible, to meet 
and greet you/ 

"The hand tightened on mine with some- 
thing like a convulsive grasp. The change 
was close at hand. The breathing became 
irregular, and in a few minutes more he 
had attained the freedom he longed for, 
had crossed the threshold, had entered the 
new life. I was bruised and broken as 
the consciousness of my loss fell on me 
with its stunning force; but not for the 
wealth of the Indies would I part with the 
dear memory of those closing hours of 
my father's earthly life.'' 

Then he said with more emphasis than 
he was accustomed to use, " That dying 
man's faith was well founded, or this uni- 
verse is one vast blunder." 



"A Little Nearer Home." 81 

M But, Master, ,, I suggested, " if this life 
were all, would not such an ending be still 
glorious? " 

" No, a thousand times no," he an- 
swered. I saw he was deeply moved. 
" Life would be like the rocket which 
rises to midheaven, bursts into many 
colors, and then goes out in darkness. 
The deity who devised such a death 
would simply be an expert in legerde- 
main. To raise such hopes, to allow 
them to blossom to maturity, and then 
to disappoint them, would render it for- 
ever impossible to utter the Lord's Prayer. 
Love would be blotted out; and all rela- 
tions between earth and heaven would 
abruptly end. With reverence I declare 
that such a deity would have no claim on 
our confidence. Death is a serious matter; 
and at such a time we ought to have no 
delusions. The materialist solves this 
grave problem in a way abhorrent to the 
world's sense of honor. Whatever diffi- 
culties may attend the acceptance of man's 

6 



82 The Life Beyond. 

immortality, they are as nothing in com- 
parison with the difficulties which arise 
when you deny it." 

I gave the logs a vigorous thrust, but 
stoutly maintained silence. The Master 
was in deadly earnest, and I feared I 
might somehow remind him of the late- 
ness of the hour. I was hungry in soul; 
and he was throwing into my lap the food 
I most needed. It does one unspeakable 

■X. 

good to listen to a vigorous and unrelent- 
ing defence of such doctrines. We waver 
in our faith so constantly that when one 
stands before us and tells us he believes 
with every fibre of his being, we are 
stirred as by martial music, our doubts 
and fears become ghostly and vanish. 

" Your materialism," he went on, " is 
weak where it should be strongest. It is 
a thought without a heart It robs you of 
all your valuables, and leaves you a hope- 
less wreck. You tell me you want the 
truth, and nothing but the truth. You 
think you have found it in negation ; you 



"A Little Nearer Home" 83 

boast of its possession. That is well. By- 
all means let us have the truth, though the 
heavens fall. But what better criterion of 
truth can be found than experiment? If 
infidelity will produce the highest man- 
hood, it has a mighty argument in its 
favor. 

" Put materialism and Christianity shoul- 
der to shoulder, or, in the parlance of the 
schools, put the inexorable truth side by 
side with the delusions in which I believe. 
Plant your doctrines in one child's soul; 
and let me plant mine in the soul of another 
child. Teach your child that this is the 
end ; I will teach mine that this is the be- 
ginning. Tell yours that prayer is useless, 
that he must rely solely on himself. I 
will teach mine that the invisible Father 
is above him, that a holy Providence 
guards him, that morning and evening he 
may stretch out his hand, and God will 
take it and lead him over the rough and 
dangerous places. 

" Watch the result. The lives of these 



84 The Life Beyond. 

two dear ones will be essentially different. 
The qualities of their characters will be 
opposed to each other. To the one, the 
sense of heavenly helpfulness is a negative 
quantity; to the other, it is a strong staff 
on which to lean. And when death ap- 
proaches, the one will regard him as an 
inexorable tyrant whose decrees are both 
merciless and heart-rending; while the 
other wraps the drapery of his couch 
about him, murmurs with trusting confi- 
dence, ' Thy will be done/ and falls into 
a sweet sleep. 

" Your materialism is a misfit garment 
for the soul, — a garment of shreds and 
patches, neither protecting from the heat 
of summer nor the cold of winter. Or, to 
change the figure, it does not furnish food 
which either satisfies the appetite, or nour- 
ishes the aspirations. One may accustom 
himself to such food, but it requires a dis- 
tinct effort ; and at the very best, it pro- 
duces moral and spiritual indigestion 
which induces chronic melancholy. With 



"A Little Nearer Home" 85 

unbelief, you simply endure life ; with faith 
in God, you enjoy life. Nobody ever 
lived in doubt who would not at any time 
be glad to get rid of it. Nobody ever 
had a vital faith who did not feel that it 
was his most precious possession. 

" Compare the results of these two theo- 
ries of the universe and you stand face to 
face with a thrilling and startling fact. 
Admit that your materialism is true, and 
that my Christianity is false ; still you are 
forced to concede that the one develops 
the noblest qualities of the human charac- 
ter, and that the other signally fails to do 
so. Under the one, the soul enlarges and 
becomes purified ; under the other, it 
shrinks and becomes desperate. In other 
words, the world and the soul are so 
constituted that the alleged delusions 
of Christianity are worth infinitely more 
as an incentive to progress, to civili- 
zation, to orderly society, to philan- 
thropy, and to that whole range of 
qualities which we call the virtues, than 



86 The Life Beyond. 

is the truth as represented by scientific 
materialism. 

" And what kind of a universe is it, in 
which falsehood, an hallucination, can 
make a nobler manhood than the truth? " 

The Master rose as he uttered this last 
sentence, and quietly bade me good-night. 
But I sat before those blazing logs think- 
ing and wondering until the clock struck 
two, and then wearily went to bed, 



CHAPTER VI. 

A MARBLE BABE. 

T3 EUBEN NIX'S little one was dead. 

-*-^- I went with the Master to the more 
than humble home of the parents. Reuben 
was a day laborer with very uncertain 
work. Sometimes he had enough, and 
then a joint graced his table; at other 
times he had nothing, and then he lived 
I know not how. He was a rough, brusque, 
but good-hearted man to whom religion 
was a far away and foggy mystery. 

We crawled up three dark flights of 
stairs in one of the lower districts, and 
then Mary Nix met us at the door. Her 
face was somewhat hard, for life had been 
a constant struggle ; but at the sight of 
my friend, so self-contained, so thoroughly 
master of the situation, and yet so gentle 



&8 The Life Beyond. 

and sympathetic, she broke down and 
buried her face in her apron. 

The Master led her into the half-fur- 
nished sitting-room where Reuben sat 
glum and despondent, conscious that 
something strange had happened to him, 
but not quite knowing what it meant. 
The child's body lay on the bed in the 
chamber adjoining; and the Master, with- 
out a word, entered and beckoned me to 
follow. The little one was like a bit of 
beautifully chiselled marble, and as cold ; 
but there was a smile on her lips 
as though she had been welcomed to 
the heavenly play-ground, and was sur- 
prised and delighted with her angelic 
companions. 

Then the hot and pent-up quarters in 
that lowly and in all respects disagreeable 
tenement, seemed to fade from my vision. 
The walls of the chamber melted into thin 
air, and I heard a voice saying, " Of such 
is the Kingdom of Heaven." It was deep, 
mellow, and uplifting; it thrilled me 



A Marble Babe. 89 

through and through, and my eyes filled 
with tears. I listened awe-struck, as the 
voice continued, " Suffer little children to 
come unto Me, and forbid them not." 
The voice of an angel could not have 
been more persuasive or more pleading. 
A third time that voice broke on my 
startled ear, " In my Father's house are 
many mansions; if it were not so I 
would have told you." 

The effect was as impressive as the 
notes of an organ in some great cathe- 
dral. I could not help trembling from 
head to foot, for the Master's gentle assur- 
ance, the solemn majesty of his manner, 
dissipated all my doubts. My moral fir- 
mament, erstwhile filled with stars, began 
to feel the warm glow of the rising sun, 
and, for the time, heaven not only seemed 
a grand reality, but death a friendly pres- 
ence to guide us through the valley of 
shadows. 

I heard a muffled sob which came from 
the other room. Mary was weeping as 



90 The Life Beyond. 

though her heart would break; and the 
lines about Reuben's mouth twitched ner- 
vously. It was plain that he made a 
great but vain effort to keep his sorrow 
under the lock and key of silence. The 
Master took his place by their side ; while 
I, quite overcome by the scene, sat in a 
chair by the window. 

We were so shut in by blank walls that 
I felt half-suffocated; and yet as I caught 
a glimpse of the sky and watched the 
clouds as they scudded by over the roofs 
of adjoining buildings, I lost all thought 
of my surroundings. What is poverty, I 
said to my soul, if one has heaven in 
view? What matters it that we have little 
now, — hard work and a crust of bread, — 
if it be true that when the day is over we 
shall be borne across the flood and enter 
the land where there is no night, and 
where there are no tears? 

The Master was silent for a few min- 
utes. Then he said, " Mary, are you 
sorry that the little one has gone?" 



A Marble Babe. 91 

It seemed a strange question to ask; 
and the only answer was a wild torrent of 
weeping. 

"The babe," said Reuben, sturdily, and 
almost defiantly, " was our only comfort 
and hope. I 'm a hard working man, 
Dominie ; and there are not many comforts 
in life for such as me. Many 's the time, 
when I growled because I had to handle 
the pick and spade, I have thought of that 
baby in her crib, and of the good woman 
getting my dinner, and come to be satisfied 
with my lot. It was something to look 
forward to when we knocked off work, 
was the laugh of that little one which 
would welcome me home. I have had 
hard thoughts, Dominie, because the world 
hasn't always treated me fairly; but the 
child has kept me from bearing a grudge. 
The chuckle of the babe has been better 
than good luck to me ; but now she 's 
dead, what can I do?" 

" Reuben," answered the Master, so 
quietly and gently that I knew he was 



92 The Life Beyond. 

dealing with some great verity, " tell me 
something. You are poor, you say? " 

The strong man pointed to the broken 
furniture in that stuffy room, to the car- 
petless floor, to the half-open and empty 
cupboard. 

" Dominie, if I had money would I 
live here?" he said. "Poor? — ay, and 
no prospect of anything else. If only I 
have enough to eat, and a shelter for my 
head, I am content." 

" If some benevolent stranger, who had 
at his command everything that heart could 
wish," said the Master, " had come into 
this home and said to you : ' Reuben, you 
have a precious jewel in that child. Can 
you furnish her with all she needs, — 
clothing for her body, tender care and 
cunning skill if she falls sick, costly 
teachers who shall develop her mind and 
make a true woman of her when she grows 
up?' — what would your answer be? " 

" Ah, Dominie," the strong man re- 
plied, "you hit me hard. My poverty 



A Marble Babe. 93 

is not a crime; and I would do the best 
I could. " 

" And suppose this radiant stranger," 
continued the Master, " should say, 
1 Reuben, I want you to make a great 
sacrifice. It will cost you dear, I know, 
for you love the girl; but because you 
love her I ask you to make it. Give me 
the child for a little while. She shall 
never forget you, and she shall never cease 
to be your child and Mary's; and in God's 
good time you shall not only see her again, 
but live with her. Give her to me, or 
rather lend her to me, and I will find for 
her such teachers as you cannot afford. I 
will see that she is guarded from all temp- 
tations, and that, when she reaches her 
youth, she shall fill your father heart with 
pride/ What answer would you make, 
Reuben Nix?" 

The poor man stared at the Master, who 
sat still and unmoved. Hot blood mounted 
to his cheeks. He drew an old red hand- 
kerchief across his eyes, and moved rest- 



94 The Life Beyond. 

lessly from side to side ; he was utterly 
dazed, bewildered. A conflict was going 
on within which shook his frame as an 
earthquake shakes the ground. As he 
gazed on the picture which the Master s 
hand had painted, he became wild to the 
point of desperation; but a reply seemed 
to be beyond his reach. 

Then the Master spoke again, " What 
would you say, Reuben? Is your love for 
the child large enough to give her up? 
When you came home at night, and heard 
her baby laugh, was there selfishness in 
your joy, and did you prize her because 
she contributed to your happiness alone, 
or because God had bestowed upon you a 
priceless gift to be protected by your 
strong arm, and to be cherished by your 
warm heart? Could you give her to the 
stranger's keeping that she might receive 
what you could not give her?" 

" Ay, Dominie ; I think I would have 
put her into the stranger's arms," replied 
Reuben, after a little, " and said, ' Take 



A Marble Babe. 95 

her, but let me feel sure that she is safe. 
Take her, and let her have what her father 
can't buy; but don't let her grow away 
from me and her mother. That is all I 
ask/ " 

" Reuben," said the Master, " the Stranger 
has been here." 

" No, Dominie ; no man has crossed this 
threshold." 

" Yes, He came; but you did not see 
Him, Reuben. He thought it better not 
to ask your consent to the parting; but 
He took the child, and she is safe in His 
keeping." 

" Dominie," cried Reuben, " who was 
He?" 

" It was the Christ," replied the Master, 
solemnly, " He has taken the babe to 
heaven. It was a wise thing to do, or it 
would not have been done. It is well 
with the child; for she lives in a man- 
sion not made with hands, and He who 
came in the watches of the night and 
bore her away, asks you to have such 



96 The Life Beyond. 

faith that you can say, ' Thy will, not 
mine, be done/ " 

As the Master and I sat before the 
blazing fire that night he said, " The soul 
is the elusive reality of the universe. " 

" Master/' I said, " it seems hard to be 
snatched from the very threshold of life." 

" In God's providence/' he replied, 
" nothing is taken before its time." 

" And did that child," I asked, " achieve 
its whole mission in this world within its 
thirteen months of sunshine?" 

" If you will tell me what its mission 
was," he answered, " I can make reply. 
Do you know? Does any man know? 
If the child was not given to the parents, 
but only loaned to their love ; and the 
object was to draw their hearts away from 
the things of this life to the things of the 
other life, — then I should judge from what 
I saw this afternoon that the little one's 
career was a complete and perfectly 
rounded one. One cannot believe in God 



A Marble Babe. 97 

without believing that He makes no mis- 
takes. You may have seventy years al- 
lotted to you ; another may have only as 
many days. The amount of time spent 
here has nothing to do with the problem. 
An oak lives for a couple of centuries ; but 
the rose-bush does all that is required of 
it in a single season. The lion may roam 
the forests for many winters and summers ; 
but the microscopic atom in a drop of 
water does its entire work and dies in 
a single afternoon. . It is not length of 
days, but perfect work, that renders life 
valuable/' 

" But is there not something peculiarly 
disappointing," I asked, " in the death of 
a child?" 

" Death," he answered, " never comes 
without bringing disappointment. Hopes 
always wither after his visit. He is never 
gladly welcomed ; it would be impossible 
to receive him with rejoicing, — God does 
not require it. But we can receive him 
with resignation ; that is our duty. There 

7 



98 The Life Beyond. 

is, however, something beautiful in the 
death of a babe. Its little soul has never 
been marred by a thought of sin; it is 
fresh from the hands of creative power; 
it has nothing to unlearn, nothing to re- 
gret, nothing that calls for repentance. 
From the bosom of the Father in heaven 
to the bosom of the mother on earth, and 
thence, with loving kisses on its lips, back 
to the Father's bosom again. 

" I have no doubt that the discipline of 
this life is very necessary; but if there 
are instances in which it is not necessary, 
those souls are to be congratulated. 

" One of the most painful anxieties of 
parents is lest their children, either as 
children, or men and women, may be en- 
tangled in the web of temptation and fall 
a prey to moral ruin. If you could sat- 
isfy a father that his son would never 
stoop to dishonor, would always wear his 
reputation as a precious jewel, you would 
increase the happiness of home by one 
half. 



A Marble Babe. 99 

" The most painful incident in life is 
when a child who has been reared with 
prayerful affection breaks away from the 
protecting influences of home, leaps into 
the sea of passion and pleasure, resists all 
efforts to save him, and goes down with 
a crime on his soul. Earth has many 
tragedies, but few as pitiful as that. 

" It is hard to say good-by to a little 
one before the words of welcome have 
left our lips ; but if, from some high van- 
tage-ground, we could view the future and 
see that some accident or disease might 
fatally injure his body or his mind, we 
should regard death as a friend rather 
than an enemy. This privilege is not 
granted us ; but we can soothe our sorrow 
with a firm faith that the Almighty's plan 
is both wide and long, and that He seeks 
the good of all His people by every 
decree of His providence. 

" The bereaved pay an unconscious 
tribute to the wisdom and goodness of 
God. When a little one lies on its bier, 



ioo The Life Beyond. 

the parents are well-nigh broken-hearted ; 
sometimes they are driven to the very 
verge of despair. They may even rebel, 
and, with a certain defiance of attitude, 
arraign the love of God; but were the 
prerogative granted them of calling back 
that child, they would hesitate long before 
exercising it. The feeling prevails every- 
where, at such a time, that though the 
purpose of the sorrow is hidden, it has a 
purpose. They cannot see that what is 
best has happened ; but in their heart of 
hearts they feel that it must be so. They 
would not take the responsibility — such 
is their unselfish love for the one who 
has gone — of recalling him from heaven 
to earth. 

" Children are the uplifting influence of 
every home." 

By this time there were only embers in 
the fireplace, and even they were going 
to sleep ; so the Master and I parted. 



CHAPTER VII. 

A FLY IN THE BELFRY. 

IT was one of the coldest nights of one 
of the coldest winters we had had for 
many a year. The sky was without a 
cloud; and the stars shone with a crisp 
and dazzling brilliancy. It seemed a gala 
occasion in the regions above; and the 
heavenly lanes and highways were crowded 
by a multitude of worlds which vied with 
each other in gorgeous apparel. 

Moreover the great Beyond seemed to 
have dropped down into the neighbor- 
hood of the earth, very much as a mother 
bends over the cradle of her child when 
she sings the evening lullaby. There are 
times when the heavens appear to be far 
away, — so far that we forget that they 
and we belong to the same family. We 



102 The Life Beyond. 

seem to have been put aside into some 
corner of the universe, while the grand 
procession moves in imperial splendor at 
such a distance that we have no part or 
lot in it. At other times they come close 
to us, and we feel that it would only be a 
short step from us to them. On this par- 
ticular night they were within ear-shot of 
the Master and me, as we sat by that 
blazing fire and talked of the soul's other 
Home. The wind shook our windows, 
and piled huge snow-drifts in front of the 
door ; but the hickory logs in the big fire- 
place chirped as merrily as ever, and defied 
the cold to invade the room. 

"The great questions, Master," I said, 
" upon which everything depends are, 
What is heaven; and, Where is it?" 

" No ; I think not," he replied. " What, 
and where heaven is, is a matter of slight 
importance. We can well afford to leave 
such things to the imagination. Once 
assure us that there is a heaven, and that 
we shall enter into the glories thereof at 



A Fly in the Belfry. 103 

death, and we can rest satisfied with- 
out demanding geographical or social 
details." 

"But have you no curiosity, Master?" 
I persisted. 

" I can hardly say that I have, my son. 
Sometimes I dream about its employments 
and pleasures ; and once in a while I have 
indulged in speculation concerning its bat- 
tlements and gates and streets and tem- 
ples, and the throng of redeemed beings 
who cry, ' Holy ! ' But as a general thing 
my mind is entirely passive and quiescent. 
I am not quite sure that I wish to know 
what heaven is like, or what I shall do 
when I get there. I confess that it is such 
a privilege to feel that I shall sometime 
cross its golden threshold, that my grati- 
tude and joy fill me full, and there is no 
desire to have it minutely described as the 
traveller describes Italy or Persia or India; 
I rather prefer to have all these things left 
as a surprise." 

" That seems an odd view to take," I 



104 The Life Beyond. 

said. " I think few would agree with you, 
Master." 

" If asking questions meant the receipt 
of an answer," he replied, " I might appre- 
ciate your state of mind. But of what use 
is it to ask a question when God has hid- 
den the answer where no man can find it? 
And since it is impossible to have your 
curiosity satisfied, why irritate yourself 
to no purpose? You have been told all 
that is necessary for you to know, — a 
great deal. The promise has been given 
that we shall live again. A few sentences 
have fallen on your ears which show 
plainly enough that the conditions of the 
Hereafter are beyond your conception. 
Two facts have been vouchsafed, — you 
will be transported at death to another 
home, where there shall be neither night 
nor tears ; and you will there dwell amid 
surroundings such as no eye hath seen. 
Are not these facts enough for the 
present? 

" Along the streets of the Celestial City 



A Fly in the Belfry. 105 

the rumbling wheels of the hearse shall 
never be heard. The many mansions on 
either side of its great thoroughfares are 
sunlit homes in which tears and sorrow are 
unknown. The struggle for food and rai- 
ment will be over; the strifes and conten- 
tions which are our dismay and our de- 
spair in this life will be buried in the grave 
of time. It is such a place that our pres- 
ent ideal of happiness will seem common- 
place and unworthy ; for anxiety, sickness, 
pain, and weariness will be done away." 

" And all that, Master, stimulates my 
imagination. Knowing so much, it seems 
a great grievance that I should not know 
more." 

" But these facts lie as it were in the 
suburbs of heaven," he continued. " I 
have already hurled you into the midst 
of the inconceivable; and your flight is 
aimless and without result. If more were 
told, you could not understand it. Heaven 
would not be heaven if it could be de- 
scribed in terms of human experience. 



106 The Life Beyond. 

It is heaven because it is beyond the 
reach of thought. When I say, ' There 
shall be no night there/ can your utmost 
effort grasp such a condition of things? 
When I add, ' There shall be no tears 
there/ have you the dimmest apprehen- 
sion of what the words mean? Human 
language has no terms in which to convey 
the truth about it; and human thought 
has no appliance by which it can be 
comprehended. We have certain hints, 
but nothing more. 

" There is an old rabbinical legend, and 
it runs thus: When Joseph was prime 
minister to Pharaoh, during the period of 
the famine, he emptied the chaff of his 
granaries into the Nile. It floated far 
away on the moving current; and the 
people on the bank at a distance saw it. 
It was only chaff; but it meant that there 
was corn in plenty somewhere. Chaff 
always means corn; and yet the chaff is 
worthless. You could not persuade those 
people that they were mistaken. They 



A Fly in the Belfry. 107 

were suffering the pangs of hunger, and 
supposed that the famine extended 
throughout the country, and that every- 
body was as hungry as themselves. But 
that floating chaff was a revelation. They 
were sure that if their strength would en- 
able them to reach the point at which it 
had been thrown into the river, they 
would find plenty for themselves and their 
famishing families. 

" The parallelism is faulty in many re- 
spects ; but, imperfect as it is, it serves my 
purpose." 

" You mean," I said somewhat hastily, 
for I saw the drift of his argument, " that 
the thought of heaven implies the exist- 
ence of heaven." 

" Somewhat more even than that, my 
son," he replied ; " the existence of heaven 
is a fact conceded. What it is, and what 
will be our occupation there, — we get a 
glimpse of these things in strange ways. 
Adown the stream of time come floating 
to our heart's doors certain dreams of 



108 The Life Beyond. 

bliss, — reunion with those we have loved 
and lost ; the longing for rest ; the instinc- 
tive assurance that when we are freed from 
the handicap of flesh and disease we can 
develop dormant faculties and satisfy un- 
gratified desires for holiness. The race 
as a race has enjoyed these hopes since 
it first began to struggle. They are the 
chaff; but the corn which is higher up the 
stream, in the granaries of God, will be 
ours in the by-and-by." 

" But is it not strange, Master, that we 
are not endowed with a sixth sense by 
means of which we might get some glim- 
mer of these grand realities ?" 

" In Europe once," he answered, " I 
went into the bell-tower of a famous 
cathedral; and on the rim of one of the 
huge bells I saw a fly. Suppose that lit- 
tle insect to be gifted with reasoning 
powers as wide as the fullest range of 
its possibilities. He might hear the awful 
din of the chimes, but could he discover 
that each sound was a musical note, that 



A Fly in the Belfry. 109 

it was related to other notes, and that the 
whole was a hymn of gladness? 

" If the plan of the building, the pur- 
pose for which it was used, were to be ex- 
plained to him by the words contained in 
his fly vocabulary, — and these would be 
the only means of communication, — could 
he be made to understand them ? Would 
it be possible to convey to him any ade- 
quate idea of the architect; of the founda- 
tions on which the structure rests ; of the 
many colored windows, each symbolical 
of some historic event; of the huge organ, 
which makes the air throb until the heart 
is melted into reverence ; of the robed 
priest at the altar, and of the hopes, the 
warnings, the consolations, which his office 
represents? Though he did his best to 
comprehend, your language would be as 
mysterious as a problem of Calculus to a 
newly born child. Any attempt to make 
him understand these things in their 
right relations would be utterly out of the 
question. 



no The Life Beyond. 

"If he were to investigate matters 
without the aid of a teacher, or co-ex- 
plorer, and should take his flight from 
belfry to dome, from dome to nave, from 
nave to apse, from organ to altar, and 
should then deduce a theory from the 
the facts thus attained, would it not be 
necessarily full of errors? Would he be 
mentally capable of doing justice to the 
subject? However honest he might be 
in the endeavor to get at the exact truth, 
and however persevering, it would still 
remain true that no fly, though gifted 
with extraordinary genius, could under 
any circumstances acquire a realizing 
sense of the grandeur or the significance 
of the edifice he was exploring. His 
philosophy would, after all, be only a fly's 
philosophy. He would grope helplessly 
through the vast problem, make a thou- 
sand mistakes, and inevitably reach at last 
a wholly inadequate conclusion. 

" Now, suppose further, that some supe- 
rior being should be specially comrnis- 



A Fly in the Belfry. in 

sioned to explain the uses of the edifice 
to the little insect. He would of course 
be compelled to use terms which expressed 
something within the fly's experience; 
otherwise it would be a mere description 
of a rainbow's coloring to a blind man 
who cannot conceive of red and violet 
and orange. What would happen? The 
fly might listen ; he might have every con- 
fidence in his teacher, — but he would be 
nevertheless intellectually confused. The 
best that could be done would be to ap- 
peal to his imagination ; but even that is 
limited, and the pictures would be nothing 
better than a radiance far beyond his 
reach. 

" We are but superior flies in this God- 
made cathedral of the universe. With our 
unaided strength we have won proud vic- 
tories. We have wrenched from many of 
the stars their secrets; have dived into 
the bowels of the earth and brought up 
many a strange story ; have roamed hither 
and yon, and collected such glorious facts 



ii2 The Life Beyond. 

from which to construct a theory of crea- 
tion that we are amazed at our own success. 
But far beyond us, out of reach of our 
mightiest endeavor, the greatest mystery 
of all hides itself from our near-sighted- 
ness. We comprehend much, and that 
excites our curiosity to discover more; 
but creative force is still, and always will 
remain, the despair of science. 

" We have longings ; and we search 
until we find the wherewithal to satisfy 
them. We grow hungry; and behold, the 
food is at hand. We love ; and soon dis- 
cover some one who accepts our affection. 
We have ambitions; and the means of 
gratifying them are not at too great a 
distance. We therefore reach the conclu- 
sion that all natural aspirations imply the 
existence of something which will meet 
their demands. We long intensely and 
painfully for a continuance of life after 
what seems to us the end of all things has 
come. That longing is a component part 
of our nature. The barbarian has it; he 



A Fly in the Belfry. 113 

buries his friend, and then kills that 
friend's dogs and horses, and lays his 
bow and arrows in his grave in the full 
belief that he will have use for them in 
the happy hunting-grounds of the future. 
Shall all else be granted us, and this 
chiefest of our hopes be denied? 

" And yet when one attempts to get a 
clear idea of that future life, he fails, pre- 
cisely as the fly fails to get an idea of the 
cathedral. And no language can describe 
it because its conditions are as different as 
those into which the butterfly enters after 
the grub dies and the new creature breaks 
through the chrysalis." 

" Master," I cried with some degree of 
vehemence, " is the other life indeed so 
glorious that it is practically unthinkable? 
Do you mean that?" 

" Therein lies the goodness of God," he 
answered. " If our future home were a 
palace of marble- in place of the thatched 
cottage of this present life; and if our 
happiness were to consist of rich viands, 

8 



ii4 The Life Beyond. 

the unalloyed gratification of our physical 
passions, sweet revenge against our ene- 
mies, and such things as are either within 
our daily experience or observation, — then 
we should readily understand the life after 
the resurrection. But God's goodness and 
wisdom have with boundless prodigality 
prepared something infinitely higher and 
infinitely better; and because it is higher 
and better, so much so that we cannot 
possibly understand it, we halt and hesitate 
and even indulge in doubts." 

I was silent, for the Master was wrest- 
ling with mighty thoughts. There was 
one question, however, which still weighed 
on my heart. The clock struck midnight; 
but one word more I must have, or sleep 
would never come to me again. 

" Tell me," I said at length, — " tell me, 
Master, shall we know our loved ones on 
the other side? " 

" You should be able to answer that 
question yourself, my son," he replied. 
"Indeed, if what I have said is true, it 



A Fly in the Belfry. 115 

answers itself. Shall we know less in the 
Hereafter than we do now? What is the 
significance of immortality, if it means 
forgetfulness? Of what use is immortality, 
if we lose our identity? How can this life 
be a preparation for the next, if death 
obliterates all memory of it? You send 
your boy to a primary school, where he 
gets the rudiments of an education. At 
the proper time he is removed, and sent 
to better equipped teachers, that he may 
struggle with larger problems. Suppose 
your act of removal from the primary 
department had some magic in it by which 
all knowledge already obtained was torn 
from his mind and thrown away, — would 
the boy ever be educated? Would not 
the fundamental principles of education 
be destroyed? 

" My father told me on his death-bed, 
when he laid his hand on my head in fare- 
well, that he would meet me on the other 
shore. He will do it, if it is possible ; and 
immortality means nothing unless it is 



n6 The Life Beyond. 

possible. It is one of the joys to which 
I look forward; and I am sure I shall not 
be disappointed.'' 

He left me ; but my heart repeated again 
and again these words from the German : 

" O Land ! O Land ! 
To all the broken-hearted, 
The mildest herald by our faith allotted 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
Into the land of the Departed, 
Into, the Silent Land." 



THE END. 







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